


Oxygen

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Coherency is harder even than movement, completely beyond Yamamoto’s grasp when he can’t even think to put his shirt on for watching the unconscious grace in Gokudera’s movements." Gokudera runs into Yamamoto in the showers and they get distracted making up for lost time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Yamamoto should probably head back to his room.

By any reasonable estimation this is the right thing to do. He was only looking to take a shower after completing his training, is hungry and a little bit tired, and even if dinner isn’t ready yet he can probably take a quick nap to keep himself from falling asleep over the table as he has been doing recently. But reason has nothing to do with the calm permeating his body, the complete unwillingness to leave that is holding him where he stands.

That would be due completely to Gokudera.

The other boy isn’t even looking at Yamamoto. He’s pulling off his other shoe, emptying it of enough sand to pull curiosity to Yamamoto’s mind if he could think straight. But coherency is harder even than movement, completely beyond Yamamoto’s grasp when he can’t even think to put his shirt on for watching the unconscious grace in Gokudera’s movements. He’s missed this, as he’s missed everything about Gokudera these last few days, like some vital component of the air around him has gone missing and left him slowly choking for want of it. And now it’s back, easing a tension in his chest he hadn’t even realized was there, until it’s enough to just watch the silver of Gokudera’s hair fall against the line of his neck, enough to listen to the sound of his breathing as he strips his socks off to join his shoes.

“You took a shower already?” Gokudera asks without looking up. He sits back up, starts unfastening the various buckles and loops that hold the boxes around his hips in place. He pushes to his feet to stow them in the boxed-off shelves in front of them, his hair swinging to fall in front of his face.

Yamamoto nods, still following Gokudera’s movements like they’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. “Just got done.”

“Heading back to the room, then?” Gokudera sounds gruff, the words catching in his throat as he speaks. He shrugs out of his overshirt, stuffs it against the shelf without looking up. The line of his t-shirt clings close to his shoulders, lets Yamamoto see the tension hunching against the curve of the other’s back.

“I was going to,” he says, hesitates because he’s not sure Gokudera is prompting him for more.

Gokudera huffs, drags his necklace off his head and starts to tug off his wristbands, looking down at his arms instead of up at Yamamoto’s face. “You make it sound like something’s changed.”

“Well, yeah.” Gokudera’s shirt is catching just above the top edge of his jeans. Yamamoto tilts his head, stares at the line of pale skin there. “You’re here now.”

“Huh.” That’s nearly a laugh, the sound turning in Gokudera’s throat before he closes his mouth and reaches to pull his shirt off over his head. Yamamoto can see his shoulders shift with the motion as his skin comes clear to the light, the familiar curve of his back glowing under the illumination, and then Gokudera turns his head, looks sideways through his hair to meet Yamamoto’s gaze. “And what are you thinking about now?”

Yamamoto takes a breath. “You,” he says, and Gokudera turns, and Yamamoto reaches out, and they both move in at once. His hands fit into silver hair, and Gokudera’s slender fingers settle against his waist, and when Yamamoto ducks his head Gokudera is turning up to meet him, his mouth soft with no trace of his usual scowl on his lips. He tastes like dust, dry clinging to his lips to match the sand in his shoes, but underneath it he’s himself, the sweet bite that tastes more like home than anything else Yamamoto has ever known. His hands are sliding up Yamamoto’s back, collecting the lingering damp from the shower against dust-dry fingers, and Yamamoto smiles against Gokudera’s mouth, licks against his tongue to pull the familiar taste of the other to his lips.

Gokudera pulls back after a moment, his lashes shifting over his eyes and his gaze skimming across Yamamoto’s hair, cheekbones, shoulder, his mouth turning on a smile too soft to be conscious. “So are you going to put a shirt on?” he asks, offering good reason not to by sliding his hand around Yamamoto’s waist to drag his fingers up the other’s chest. “Or are you gonna take your pants off?”

“Uh,” Yamamoto says, his thoughts blurry with heat haze and his tongue slow to move for the lingering taste of Gokudera on it. “Pants off.”

Gokudera’s smile draws sharp, turns into a grin as his hand slides down. “Good choice, baseball idiot.” The phrase is soft on his lips, the sound of an endearment and not an insult, and he leans back in for Yamamoto’s mouth as the fingers on the other’s skin draw down to press at the front of his jeans. Yamamoto shuts his eyes, lets the warmth of Gokudera’s lips on his and the weight of fingers against his pants urge the warmth in his blood into heat, until by the time Gokudera draws back and pulls his hands away Yamamoto is too glazed to remember where they are for a moment. When he blinks himself back into focus Gokudera is moving out of reach, turning away so all Yamamoto can see is the fall of his hair and the line of his back as he tugs at his jeans. There’s the sound of a zipper, a shift of dark denim, and if there’s a flicker of hesitation in Gokudera’s movements it’s gone almost immediately, replaced by the motion of his hands as he pushes his jeans and boxers to his ankles in one smooth action. Yamamoto’s breath catches, the pale elegance of Gokudera’s uncovered body as stunning as ever, and the other looks back over his shoulder, a quick flash of green eyes before he kicks his clothes into the corner and turns back around with deliberate unconcern. He’s flushed hard against his stomach, the line of his cock drawing Yamamoto’s gaze without any chance at resistance, and Yamamoto makes a faint whimpering sound and reaches out unthinking for Gokudera’s hip.

The other boy moves sideways, steps neatly over the bench like it’s a wall, and when he moves it’s with a show of uncaring, stepping towards the shower without so much as meeting Yamamoto’s gaze. He doesn’t pause until he’s in the space itself, his fingers reaching up to catch at the curtain; then he glances back, eyelashes shifting suggestion over the smoke in his gaze, and Yamamoto is held still by the invitation in the green of Gokudera’s eyes, by the arrogant confidence in the tilt of his chin.

“Are you coming?” Gokudera asks, his tone sharpening the question into a criticism, and Yamamoto starts to take a step in instant obedience before he remembers he’s still wearing his jeans. He has to pause to manage the buckle, has to look down before he can remember how to unfasten a zipper, and while he’s working at the fly Gokudera draws the curtain, the sound of water starting up to wash out the ambient sound of the other’s breathing.

Yamamoto has no idea how long it takes him. It can’t be very long, when all he has to do is get the weight of his jeans open and off his hips, but by the time he’s stepping free he’s as hard as Gokudera was, maybe harder, all his breathing coming short and shallow with anticipation. He folds his jeans haphazardly -- they are clean, after all, he’ll put them back on later -- and only then does he move forward and reach out to tug the edge of the curtain open.

Gokudera’s standing in the spray of the water, his head tipped back so the shower can splash against his hair and his shut eyes, but he tips his head down and blinks as Yamamoto hesitates, pausing to stare at the damp of the droplets hitting the other’s skin, entranced by the way the water collects at Gokudera’s collarbone and skids into a waterfall against his arm. Gokudera huffs, his cheeks starting to color, and then he’s tipping his head back again, reaching up to push the water through the wet-dark strands of his hair. His throat looks like art itself, the pale of his skin glowing in the steam off the shower, and Yamamoto steps forward without thinking, drawn in as inexorably as if by a magnet. He can see Gokudera’s breathing catching in his chest, his cock still hard against his hips, and he doesn’t mean to sigh appreciation until the sound is off his lips and free into the hot humidity of the air.

“Idiot,” Gokudera says without opening his eyes, but he leans in when Yamamoto brushes his fingertips against the water catching against his hip, the tremor across his stomach speaking to the permission he’s not saying aloud. Yamamoto takes another half step-in, his skin going wet again from the splash of moisture off Gokudera’s body, but he doesn’t think of that at all; everything in him is falling into humming focus on the slip of the warm skin under his fingers, on the way Gokudera’s far hip fits against the palm of his hand when he reaches out.

“Gokudera,” he says, so soft it’s almost an inadvertent whisper. “I missed you.”

Gokudera lowers his chin again, blinks water from his eyes to offer Yamamoto a glare shadowed into promise. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, reaching out one wet hand to close against Yamamoto’s arm. “You’ve seen me every day.”

Yamamoto shakes his head. “Not like this,” he says, ducks in to kiss the water that’s collected against Gokudera’s eyebrow. Gokudera stiffens under the contact, his breathing stalling for a minute, and Yamamoto pulls back, relinquishing the contact in favor of lowering his weight until his knees press hard against the tiled floor and Gokudera’s hold on his arm slides free. His hands at Gokudera’s hips feel less like he’s holding the other in place, like this, more like the supplication he feels vaguely they should be, and he can hear Gokudera’s breathing catch over him as Yamamoto leans in to kiss against the water falling against the other’s stomach.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, forming the words before he looks up. Gokudera is staring at him, his eyes wide and almost black, mouth soft around something that isn’t anger and isn’t quite fear but that is considering both as possible options. His forehead creases as Yamamoto looks up at him, his lips falling into the familiarity of a frown, and then he reaches out, the line of his arm interrupting Yamamoto’s gaze as he buries his damp fingers into the wet of Yamamoto’s hair.

“What did you think we were going to do?” he asks, the words rough with assumed impatience, and Yamamoto can recognize that as permission, if not phrased that way. He shuts his eyes, his lips curving into a smile of satisfaction, and when he moves in Gokudera’s hand tightens on his hair, like the other boy is trying to steady himself as Yamamoto leans in towards the heat of his cock. Gokudera tastes like the water spilling around them when Yamamoto licks at him, clean and warm and wet, but Gokudera takes a gasping noise over Yamamoto like he’s choking at the contact and Yamamoto is tipping in closer, opening his mouth to let Gokudera’s length slide in over his tongue. He’s hotter, this way, the shape of him more of a stretch at Yamamoto’s jaw than the other expected, but he can taste him better too, the clear anonymity of the water fading into the salt-spicy bitter that is unique to Gokudera’s skin. Yamamoto hums appreciation, the sound drawing Gokudera’s hand dragging against his hair, and when he leans in farther there’s the sound of a splash, the impact of a palm hitting the side of the wet shower as Gokudera braces himself. Yamamoto can feel Gokudera’s heartbeat in the shift of the other’s cock over his tongue, can taste the heat rising in Gokudera’s veins as if it were his own, until he’s far more attuned to the shape of Gokudera flushing impossibly harder against his lips than he is to the ache of want thrumming through his own length. He can feel each half-restrained jerk of Gokudera’s hips under his fingers, can taste each pulse of anticipatory bitter across his tongue, and he doesn’t realize he’s humming satisfaction; all he’s aware of is the heat in his veins, the steam hanging thick in the air and the steady rhythm of Gokudera’s breathing coming hard over his head. The fist in his hair loosens, Gokudera’s fingers sliding down to curl against the back of his head instead, and when Gokudera takes a breath Yamamoto can hear the words on it before he parses the sound of his name.

“Yamamoto.” It’s broken into pieces, the syllables each a separate effort in Gokudera’s throat. “I’m--” Yamamoto licks without pulling away, slides his tongue up to taste the bitter at the head of Gokudera’s cock, and Gokudera shudders and has to pause for breath. “Fuck, Yamamoto--” and he’s groaning the last of the name, sounding like he’s been hit and trembling like he’s been shocked, his hips jerking forward against Yamamoto’s grip so he can thrust in against the other’s mouth as he comes. There’s salt at the back of Yamamoto’s tongue, liquid spilling into his mouth, and he’s swallowing hard without pulling away, leaning in to follow Gokudera when the other gasps and draws back to catch his balance. The fingers against his hair are shaking, too unsteady to offer any control to Yamamoto’s movements, and for a moment it’s just Yamamoto moving, sliding back slow so he can suck Gokudera clean as he goes. Gokudera shudders at the end, jerks back like the sensation is too much, and then he’s grabbing for Yamamoto’s shoulder, urging him to his feet faster than the other can move with the slippery footing. Yamamoto’s knees ache, the pressure of his position catching up to him, but he only has a moment to consider that before the heated-over shadow in Gokudera’s eyes catches all his attention and the hand at his shoulder shoves him back against the steam-heated tile.

Yamamoto goes without the least resistance, falling back to lean against the wall while Gokudera steps in so close he has to fit a foot between Yamamoto’s to steady his balance. He’s hotter than the water, hotter than the steam, the damp slip of his skin burning through Yamamoto’s blood when he leans in to kiss the water off the other’s lips. Yamamoto lets his hands slide against Gokudera’s skin, the water washing down the line of the other’s back catching into ripples at his fingers, and Gokudera’s hand is back against his neck, holding him steady while the other slides down his stomach to brush against the sensitive ache at his cock. Yamamoto breaks back from the kiss without meaning to, his throat catching on a gasp, and Gokudera grins satisfaction, growls something wordless and encouraging and wraps his fingers into a hold on Yamamoto’s length. His eyes are shadows, green catching the light when when blinks and his eyelashes turned black with the weight of the water caught on them, and Yamamoto can’t decide if he wants more to kiss the wet flush of Gokudera’s lips or stare at the curve of the other’s mouth. He can see the tension collecting at the corner of Gokudera’s mouth, the shape of a smile breaking free as he laughs, and then the hand around him jerks up and his attention scatters just as Gokudera speaks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he demands, the words so gentle Yamamoto is whimpering at their heat instead of listening to their meaning. Gokudera leans in, presses a wet-quick kiss to Yamamoto’s lips, and he’s moving fast, his fingers pulling up over the other’s length until Yamamoto can’t even think about what his hands are doing, can’t help the way he’s leaning in from the support of the wall to slide his palms up Gokudera’s back and ducking his head to breathe against the humid air of his shoulder.

“Gokudera.” It comes out like an exhale, as easy as the sigh of air from his lungs; Yamamoto can feel Gokudera shiver, lean in closer so the motion of his hand is caught dragging between them. Yamamoto presses his nose in against the side of Gokudera’s neck, takes a breath that feels like raw heat straight off Gokudera’s body. “Gokudera, I missed you.”

“Baseball idiot,” Gokudera says, but his hand is sliding up the back of Yamamoto’s neck, fingers twisting into the other’s hair like he’s holding him in place. The touch is as good as words, as good as the shift of his skin under Yamamoto’s palms, and as his fingers catch against the head of the other’s cock Yamamoto can feel his awareness starting to haze away. When he breathes in he can taste Gokudera on his tongue, heat rushing into excess in his veins until he feels like he’s melting, like all the bones in his body are giving way to the flood of pleasure cresting over him. There’s the friction of fingers in his hair, the sound of an almost-laugh at his ear, and Gokudera draws his hand up once more and Yamamoto sighs against his shoulder, the strength in his body giving way to languid submission as he spills over Gokudera’s fingers and against the other boy’s stomach. Gokudera purrs against his hair, tightens his hold at Yamamoto’s neck, and Yamamoto lets the sensation take him for a minute, lets everything go so he can lose himself in the warmth of Gokudera against him.

Gokudera’s fingers are sliding free when Yamamoto comes back to himself, when he can feel the heat of the air in his lungs as anything other that trembling satisfaction. Gokudera twists his hand back to let the water rinse him clean, takes a step away, and Yamamoto leans back instead of in, trusting his weight to the wall instead of Gokudera’s shoulder. He can see the pearly sheen of his come across Gokudera’s skin for a moment before the other boy turns away to face the spray of the shower, smiles lazy and warm with pleasure before sliding carefully to the floor so he can watch Gokudera finish washing up.

Gokudera rolls his eyes when he sees Yamamoto watching him, huffs unspoken protest at this behavior, but he doesn’t tell Yamamoto to go, and by the time he shuts the water off he’s smiling again, the twist at the corner of his mouth giving away his pleasure before he silently offers Yamamoto a hand to pull him to his feet. Yamamoto takes the help, maintains his hold on Gokudera’s wrist to match the other, and for a moment they stand still in the haze of the steam, their fingers curled around each other’s wrist and close enough to kiss. Then Gokudera’s smile breaks into a smirk, the expression lights his eyes up bright and sparkling, and Yamamoto leans in to kiss his lips dry without letting go of Gokudera’s hand.

Even with the water hanging humid in the air, he can breathe better now than he has in days.


End file.
